


Preventative Measures

by mind_and_malady



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Books, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Ezekiel | Gadreel, Sam is the the king of bad decisions, Vessel Consent Issues, bodily autonomy issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:32:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5106470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mind_and_malady/pseuds/mind_and_malady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"His bodily autonomy may no longer matter to anyone, but this, at least, they'll have no choice but to obey."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> idk man it just kinda grew. Maybe there will be more of this delightfully disjointed storytelling, but knowing me, probably not.

Sam's bedroom has become his sanctuary. It's still sparse, full of files he wants to dig through and the musty smell of mothballs and dust that won't go away for years. But it's safer than anywhere else, at least for him.

The lock on the door doesn't mean much, but the wards he's carved into the doorframe make this the safest room in the bunker.

The runes keep out everyone. No one can come in unless Sam consents to it. They were small and simple sigils, though it had taken a few days of work to get them around the whole frame. But it had been worth it, so worth the ache in his shoulders and hands, to know that he had reclaimed at least this much of his consent. At least he had this.

He's tempted to go overboard and put them _everywhere_. But he thinks Dean would take that as a sign of paranoia. Not that keeping a knife under his pillow and a shotgun loaded with salt and iron beside his bed in the safest building in America wasn't horrendously paranoid already.

"Sam?"

It's Dean, knocking at the door. The door swings open, and Dean takes a step forward, pauses like he's unsure if he's allowed and hovers just outside the frame.

Sam smiles. The sigils aren't overt. Hitting them isn't like hitting a wall. They're befuddling, confusing little devils that misdirect and delay whoever is trying to cross them. They're engraved in the metal of the front door and scored into the concrete stairs. _Wait_ , they whisper, _turn back_.

"Yeah, Dean?" Sam asks, looking up from the file he's hunched over.

"I, uh, made dinner. You hungry?"

Sam nods. "Sure. Let me finish up and I'll come out."

Dean nods again, and shuts the door. Sam can hear him walking back down the hall, muted through the thick concrete.

His bodily autonomy may no longer matter to anyone, but this, at least, they'll have no choice but to obey.

 

* * *

 

When Lucifer arrives at the bunker, ignorant of the events of the past few years and freshly Fallen, Sam retreats.

He leaves his room as little as possible, coming out only when he needs to eat or needs the library's resources for research or he's leaving on a hunt. Not that he gets to hunt much. Dean and Castiel are still worried about the stability of his health, and Sam can't say it's unfounded. He’s still weak, body aching in protest of anything strenuous, and the world still reeks of decay.

But that leaves him alone with Lucifer. Lucifer, who is so different now than ever before. This is not the same creature who burned under his own fury and determination trying to prove a point to his Father, and it is not the same creature who raged at Michael in the Cage when harm came to his vessel. This new Lucifer is still softspoken and sure of himself, but he's heavier, rougher around the edges. Sam looks in his eyes and sees the same grief and loneliness and desperation that plague his own thoughts.

Sam will admit to being grateful to Lucifer. The Devil is courteous, treads quietly and makes himself scarce when he can, and is always respectful and in Sam’s line of sight when he can’t. Despite his gratitude, Sam feels guilty. Lucifer drifts around like a ghost, no reason to be here or to stay, but floating through the stone-cold corridors of the bunker nonetheless. He wishes he was comfortable enough in his own skin to let Lucifer come closer, to interact, to give him a reason to trust them and to stay on their side.

But he can’t. He can’t take that step. Lucifer may have been the only one to ask for consent and wait for it to be granted, but he was still a hurricane inside Sam’s skin, sweeping him up and tearing him apart before spitting him out as something lesser, something fractured and full of holes.

He can’t let Lucifer in again. He doesn’t trust himself not to go looking for the pieces he lost inside the whirlwind grace of the Devil.

 

* * *

 

The knock on Sam’s door is oddly hesitant. Sam’s familiar with the knocks he gets - Dean’s hardly thumping, occasionally Zeppelin themed, Cas’ quick _rat a tat tat_ of knuckles - and this is neither of them.

Sam sets the folder he was skimming over aside, and maneuvers his way out of the fortress of paper his desk had turned into. When he opens the door, Lucifer looks oddly nervous, palms flat against his thighs and eyes bright, but the look melts into a small curve of a smile.

“Sam,” he says, voice warming.

Sam waits for a moment, then huffs out a breath, leaning against the safe side of the door frame. “Do you need something, Lucifer?” he asks, not unkindly, though his tone is cool.

Lucifer blinks. “Not particularly,” he says.

And somebody help him, but now Sam’s curious. Lucifer does his best to avoid him. This is beyond unusual.

Sam studies Lucifer for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. He doesn’t look different, still pale with stubbly cheeks, same clothes. But - his hair is ruffled, mused like he’d been running his hands through it and flat on the back, and the circles under his eyes are more pronounced. Angels don’t sleep, Sam knows this. But Lucifer is twice fallen now, and who know what the rules are for him anyways?

Sam’s postures loosens a little, and he smiles very slightly. “Can’t sleep?” he asks, and Lucifer’s eyebrows twitch upwards even as his mouth turns down in a grimace.

“Is it that apparent?” he sighs, but doesn’t deny it.

“I thought angels didn’t need to sleep,” Sam points out.

Lucifer’s eyes slide over Sam’s shoulder to the mess Sam’s made of his desk and the surrounding three feet of floor. “I thought humans needed several hours of sleep,” the smile grows slightly impish. “I suppose we’re both surprised.”

Sam laughs, just for a moment. Then he sobers, head tilting slightly to lean against the doorframe. “Seriously, though. We’ve only seen Cas sleep when he’s close to dying or human. You okay?”

It’s an odd question to ask one of the most powerful beings left in the Universe, and it visibly catches Lucifer off guard. “I - Yes, I’m alright. Angels can sleep to replenish their energy if they are weak, involuntarily or voluntarily. I have more to replenish than most and it is...uncomfortable, being this weak. I thought sleep would assist the process.”

“Has it?”

“For the most part,” Lucifer allows, but he seems disquieted. “Dreams are...bizarre.”

Sam bites back another grin, and nods. “They can be. Is that why you’re here? Weird dreams? I’m not exactly Freud.”

Lucifer blinks owlishly at him. “Freud?”

“Nevermind,” Sam shakes his head. “Is that why, though? Dreams?”

“Yes. I was...disorientated by my last one. I consulted Castiel, who said that such effects would go away fastest with company.”

Sam reevaluates the stance he found Lucifer in when he opened the door. Not nervous, but _anxious_. It’s post-nightmare stress. Understanding and empathy push up from inside him. He knows what sorts of hell sleep can bring.

He opens the door the rest of the way, and steps back. “Come on in, then.”

Lucifer takes a step forward into the room, and then he seems to startle, head swivelling around. “Do you have wards in here?”

Sam carefully makes his way back to his desk, easing over the piles of files, trying to calm the thrumming pace of his heart. He’s not sure about this at all, but Lucifer is in here already, and he may as well see this through to the end. “A few. Why?”

“I could feel the deterrents pushing me back as I stepped towards the door, but they vanished as soon as I got inside,” he blinks at the doorframe, runs his fingers along the narrow side. “Did you make these?”

“I did,” Sam allows. His fingers drum against his knees.

Lucifer pauses as he runs his fingers over a particular sigil. “These ones require consent to break through?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. I was -” he stops, breathes. “I need a little more control over my things than the average person, I guess.” _I need my body back and this is the only way I can salvage any of it._

“I see,” Lucifer murmurs, and steps away from the door, closing it. “May I ask what you’re working on?”

Sam grins wryly, and he calms slightly at the reminder of his efforts. “An electronic index for the library and storage rooms. All of this paper,” he waves a hand at the small fortress around himself, “is an alphabetical index of where everything was when the Men of Letters were last here. I’m digitizing it, and updating it.”

Lucifer’s eyebrows rise. “That’s quite a project. There’s a lot here.”

Sam shrugs. “It’s busy work, really. And it lets me get more familiar with what kinds of resources we have. They also label pretty clearly what we should never touch, _ever_ , which is good to know. I’d hate to accidentally release a curse, or have another Wizard of Oz incident.”

Lucifer hums agreement, and sits neatly on the floor by the messy pile of papers that Sam has already finished using. “May I look through these?”

Sam just nods, and gets back to work.

For a long while, the only sounds are the shuffles of paper and the clicking of Sam’s laptop keys. It’s a nice, calm silence. Sam feels oddly content as he does his work, and resists the urge to break the silence with inane chatter about what files he’s documenting. He’s providing company, not making friends.

Lucifer makes a small, breathy noise, and Sam blinks, looks over at him. He’s leaning against the wall, papers forgotten in his lap, head lolling to the side. His eyebrows are scrunched together, and he makes that small sound again before it turns into a low cry. It’s not a happy sound. It’s a noise of quiet fear, pitiful and heart-wrenching, utterly wracked with loneliness.

Sam slides out of the fortress, hits the ground on his knees beside Lucifer. “Hey,” Sam says, and then hesitantly grabs Lucifer’s hand. “Wake up.”

Lucifer let’s out another cry that makes Sam’s heart clench in his chest. He shakes Lucifer’s shoulder with his free hand, but still, there’s no response.

“Lucifer,” Sam pleads, one hand curling into the soft fabric of Lucifer’s collar. “C’mon Lucifer, it’s just a dream, you’re asleep. You’re safe here, okay? I promise you’re safe here. Hell, you’re safer here than any other room in the bunker. Nobody comes in unless I want them to come in. You’re safe here, Lucifer.”

He doesn’t wake up, but he does start to relax, in increments. Once his expression smooths out and he’s sighing into Sam’s touch, Sam carefully starts to pick him up, one hand supporting his back and the other under his knees. The papers flutter uselessly to floor as Sam stands up, body aching sharply in protest, but he lays Lucifer out on his bed and throws a blanket over him. After a moment of thought, he takes off Lucifer’s shoes.

Sam goes back to work. Very determinedly, he does not look at the clock, but judging by the itching behind his eyes it must be well into the early morning. It doesn’t matter. Lucifer is sleeping in his bed, and he won’t fall asleep at his desk. The allure of coffee grows by the minute, but he shoves it back too. He’ll stay right here until Lucifer wakes up, and resist the urge to crawl into bed beside him and run back to the thing that hurt him.

 

* * *

 

Returning to consciousness is always an odd sensation. It’s comparable to trying to swim against the current - you may delay the process, but the end result will be the same. His situation is unusual though. He isn’t on a couch, and the bed he is on does not smell like decades’ worth of dust. The pillow under his head is soft and smells like lavender soap, the mattress is soft and newer than the few he’s slept on before, and the blanket thrown over him is heavy and soft, smelling of laundry detergent.

There’s the warm glow of a soul to his right, enormous and brilliant like the sun.

He’s in Sam’s room. He must be. Lucifer cannot recall leaving, or even gaining permission to sleep here. Did he ask? He can’t remember putting himself on Sam’s bed either.

A yawn breaks through his mouth, and there’s a tired, throaty chuckle from Sam. “You finally awake?”

“It seems so,” Lucifer mumbles. His hands are clutching at then blanket; he’s reluctant to let go of it. “Have you slept?”

He can hear Sam’s shrug. “Nah. I’ll sleep later.”

Slowly, Lucifer sits up. He keeps the blanket clutched around his shoulders, savoring the warmth. Sam spins in his chair and smiles at him, but he looks exhausted, dark circles very prominent beneath his eyes.

“Sam?’ He waits until Sam hums his acknowledgement. “Why am I on your bed?”

Sam shrugs. “I thought it would be more comfortable than the floor. Was I wrong?”

Lucifer’s mouth curls up just a bit at the corners. “You were correct.” He pauses, and then stands up. “I should go, and give you back your bed. I apologize for keeping you awake.”

Sam waves him off. “It’s alright. Feel free to drop by when you want company, okay? Just make sure you knock first.”

It’s an unexpected offer, and a kind one. “Thank you, Sam. I will.” he murmurs, and Sam smiles at him.

Lucifer leaves feeling well-rested and curiously light, as though the world had lost its grip on him and him alone.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

When Lucifer leaves, Sam stands up. The pile of papers has shrunk overnight, and it’s easy to reach the bed.

He strips everything. All the pillowcases, the sheets, _everything_. He shakes a little while he’s doing it, but he hardly notices past the feedback loop in his brain detailing exactly how he’d just messed up.

Why did he do that? _Why?_ He knows he can’t let Lucifer get too close to him, can’t risk that, but then why - why did he ignore every warning sign his history and his mind were giving him? For a dream he knew nothing about? Was it pity? Empathy? He doesn’t know. But his mind had flashed back to days upon days of sleeplessness, and he’d known he couldn’t inflict that on someone else, that he had to help. Nevermind the fact that Lucifer had been the cause of those days in the first place.

No, no, that’s not fair. Not Lucifer. It wasn’t Lucifer. It was something that wore skin Sam was familiar with, something that took the angel Sam had known and the vindictiveness he’d found in the Cage, and mashed it together into a wild, overblown caricature of everything Lucifer is. Sam knows this.

But that still leaves him wondering at himself, trembling violently as he shoves the sheets in the washer, asking why he did it. Lucifer took things from him, replaced them with something alien and unbearable, and then when he left he never gave them back. Another reason, perhaps - the empty pits inside him want Lucifer closer, want him to return those missing pieces or maybe fill them again. But Sam knew that already, too. Part of him wonders if those missing pieces were always there, if Lucifer had just made them more obvious when he filled them in, like gaining a limb you never even realized you were missing, and that’s why he feels the loss. Maybe he was right about something he said, years ago - two halves of a whole, made for each other. Maybe that was less about personality than physicality, more about the gaping wounds inside of Sam were there clearly should be _something_ -

No. No, no, no, no. That something does not need to be Lucifer. It can’t be Lucifer, ever again. He doesn’t think he would survive a second attempt at housing the hurricane of power inside the Devil. He doesn’t think he’d have the will to fight him off. He can’t do that dance again, can’t let him in that close. He can’t.

Sam wonders if there are holes inside of Lucifer too, and nearly bashes his head against the concrete walls of the hallway. Those aren’t thoughts he needs. They just aren’t.

Sam realizes he’s shaking at about the same time his legs decide to fall out from under him. The fall to the floor is short and very quiet. The wood absorbs the sound with a dull thump, and Sam gasps in pain as he lays sprawled on the ground. He can’t even say what, specifically, hurts. Everything is pain, and his mind is still a mess of confusion and regret and dangerous curiosity.

His eyes close, and the world slips into shadow.

 

* * *

 

The raw panic Lucifer feels when he sees Sam on the ground is overwhelming. It pushes him to run down the hall to Sam’s side, the frantic beating of his too-human heart the only thing he can hear. For a moment, he’s not sure Sam is even breathing.

Lucifer puts his hand on Sam’s chest, feels the beat of a heart beneath his palm and the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Sam is weak - staying up so long had stressed his body more than it could stand. Resting will help, he knows, but Lucifer has to restrain the urge to just heal him, to make Sam healthy and whole again. If it isn’t life or death, he is not supposed to heal Sam. Sam has made it abundantly clear through his actions over the past weeks that he wants as little to do with Lucifer as possible, wants him gone and out of sight.

That hurts him, but Lucifer understands why. To Sam, he is just - another invasion. Another monster under his skin. Lucifer wants rage at him, wants to beg him to just _see_ , to see how it was supposed to have gone. They should have filled in each other’s cracks, become something better together than they ever would have been apart. Now all Lucifer can see is how he’d widened the cracks in Sam, how he’d scarred him, and the regret that comes with that is unbearable.

He doesn’t want to leave Sam here on the floor. But he can’t take Sam to his room, the wards won’t let him through. Should he - Dean’s room, perhaps? No, no. Carefully, he picks Sam up, the task made slightly more difficult by the man’s long legs, and makes his way to the living room.

The couch is just long enough for Sam to fit. Lucifer hovers by his side, worried, trying to will him to wake up. But eventually, he retreats to the library. It would be best for Sam not to wake with himself looming over him.

Lucifer sits down in one of the chairs. There’s a book already on the table, something with a little boy on a broomstick on the cover. Curiously, he grabs at it, reads it while he thinks.

Sam does not want Lucifer near him. His anxiety at the prospect is always readily apparent. What about what Lucifer said changed that last night? It was the longest conversation they’d had since Lucifer’s return, and then - then Sam had let him sleep in his bed? _Why?_ It made no sense for his behavior to change so rapidly, with no reason. Unless something he’d said had resonated with Sam, somehow. It must have been the talk of dreams. Had it pulled pity from Sam? Lucifer grimaces at the notion, but he knows it’s likely. Sam has his own share of nightmares, and perhaps he’d understood too well what Lucifer had spoken of.

Lucifer can’t say he isn’t glad for the experience. It had been nice to speak with Sam, to spend time with him without worrying that he was unwelcome. Sam’s room has been warded to keep people out - the fact that Lucifer was allowed in was a gift. He’s uncertain that it will ever happen again - or if it does, how often it would happen - but he is grateful for it in either case.

He wants Sam to know that he respects him, respects his privacy and his need for space. He wants Sam to know that he will still give him anything, anything at all if he only asks. Lucifer wants Sam to trust him, to be sure in the knowledge that Lucifer is watching over him.

He wants to rend the angel Gadreel apart with his _teeth_ for violating Sam’s right to consent. He wants to rip the grace out of Metatron and consume him, for what he has done to Heaven. He wants to find Michael in this hellish new world they’ve stepped into and convince him that there is no longer a point in taking sides, that Heaven and Hell are both diseased and fighting in their names is pointless, that Father has left and _does not care about them._

There are many things Lucifer wants. But he would like it most to start here, with Sam.

 

* * *

 

Sam comes back to world, stiff and sore and _confused_. He passed out in a hallway, how did he - how did he get on something plush yet slightly scratchy?

He blinks his eyes open and finds himself in the sitting room, laid out on the couch he and Dean never really use. Lucifer must’ve found him and put him here. The thought comforts and disturbs Sam simultaneously, and he shoves both feelings away. He doesn’t have time to talk himself in circles about Lucifer right now. He needs to figure out what happened.

Moving sends immediate protest through his muscles, and his knees bend agonizingly when he puts his feet on the floor. He feels like a wooly caterpillar crawled into his mouth and died, and the room smells overwhelmingly of decay. When he stands up, the earth tilts under his feet before righting itself, and his knees continue to scream at him.

He really should’ve kicked Lucifer out last night. He should’ve slept. Sam sighs. There’s not much he can do about it now other than deal with the consequences.

“Oh, look who’s awake,” he hears, and turns to see Dean, leaning against the archway that leads into the kitchen. “How’re you doing?”

“Awesome,” Sam mutters, voice rich with sarcasm, and Dean cracks a grin.

“Well, that’s what you get for staying up all night doing your research nerd crap,” he points out. His expression sobers. “Seriously. How’re you doing? Lucifer said he found you on the floor, out cold.”

Sam shrugs. “A little worse than usual but nothing awful,” he says. “When did you guys gut back?”

Dean huffs out a breath, and moves further into the kitchen. Sam follows. “About three hours after we got a call from the local PD saying they’d caught the guy doing it. Found him in the middle of eating one Henry Paleski’s liver.”

Sam grimaces. “Humans,” he says disgustedly, and Dean claps him on the shoulder.

“I know, man. Weird as hell. Hungry?”

Sam grimaces. "Not for liver."

Dean cracks up.

 

* * *

 

Laughter trickles into the library from the kitchen, warm and amused. Castiel is watching the door, listening to the sound with a fond smile

Lucifer is studying the paper the book is made of, analyzing the texture while he waits for Castiel to say what he came in here to say. It's strange. The angel is typically very forthright when they speak, and this hesitancy indicates an uncomfortable conversation for one or both of them.

Admittedly, Lucifer likes Castiel. He possesses a drive and a determination that Lucifer appreciates, and his willingness to protect the Winchesters, all the sacrifices he’s made for them, are of a scope that Lucifer can readily respect. But there is a vicious willingness to do anything to survive that he seems to have picked up from humanity, visible in the stolen grace that grates against the fabric of the younger angel’s being. Lucifer respects Castiel, but he does not admire him. There is nothing admirable about stealing such power, even if the only other choice is death.

“Lucifer,” Castiel says at last, and Lucifer sets the book aside, turning his attention to the other. “What happened?”

Curiously, Lucifer tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“With Sam. What happened while we were gone? Dean said you found him in the hall.”

Lucifer nods. “Sam was awake most of the night, but he stayed in his room. I heard him leave not long after the sun had risen, and then the washing machine started. I never heard him go back to his room, nor did he come here,” he gestures around them to the library, “so I thought I should check.” He hesitates for a moment. “You did ask me to keep an eye on him,” he adds, quieter.

“As though you wouldn’t have been doing that anyways,” Castiel observes, and Lucifer shrugs acknowledgement. “And that was all?”

“Unless you would like me to detail what I spent the last day doing,” he replies, and Castiel cracks a small smile.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says. Lucifer can see the grace shift under the skin of his vessel as Castiel winces, before straightening up. “Thank you, Lucifer.”

“You’re quite welcome, Castiel,” he says. Then he pauses, considers the book in front of him. “Are there more of these?” he asks, tapping the cover. “The ending indicates a sequel.”

Castiel examines the book. “I’ve heard Sam and Dean talk about these. I haven’t read them yet, though - Charlie…” he frowns slightly, and then his expression lightens. “Ask Sam. He will either have copies or direct you to some.”

Lucifer inclines his head, and Castiel sets off into the kitchen. He thumbs at the pages gently. They’re worn down around the corners, and the spine is beginning to crack and break. It is a well-loved book, but also well cared for.

In small, slightly faded black ink on the inside of the back cover, is a small note: _For_ _Sammy_

The idea of Dean buying a younger Sam a book like this makes Lucifer smile, ducking his head slightly. It’s simple, but sweet, and the care Sam has put into it over the past two decades is evident. Lucifer resolves to give the book back to Sam, and ask about the rest.

 

* * *

 

“-and I’m telling you, Cas, that if Willy Wonka had more than a few screws loose nobody would be surprised. Did you not see what he did to those kids? Like, c’mon, they’re kids, of course they’re all brats.”

“Your opinion of children is very low, Dean,” Castiel notes, inspecting the older Winchester over his cup of coffee.

“It’s ‘cause I was one. Kids are brats. They grow out of it.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “You and Sam were lovely children,” he says, and Sam starts laughing, which he tries to smother with his hands.

Dean is outraged, jabbing a finger at Castiel as his face flushes. “We agreed to _never_ speak of that. _Ever_.”

Castiel smiles, the picturesque image of angelic virtue, and Dean growls out something filthy. The ensuing bitch fest is something that Sam is tempted to keep score for, and maybe mediate in case Dean gets out of hand.

Then his eyes catch on Lucifer hovering just outside the kitchen, holding a book. Hesitating. Sam catches his eyes and tilts his head in wordless question. His lungs don’t seem to inflate properly while he does it, the mess of thoughts about last night coming back with a vengeance.

Silently, Lucifer gestures with the book. Sam’s eyes catch on the title and damn it all to hell, curiosity rises again. He’s reading _Sorcerer's_ _Stone_. Sam neatly extricates himself from the kitchen, and slips back towards the library with Lucifer.

“You’re reading _Harry_ _Potter_?” Sam asks disbelievingly.

Lucifer blinks at him. “I finished it, actually. Castiel told me to ask you where I might find the rest.”

Sam knows where they are. They’re stacked in a neat pile on the floor in his room, beside the filing cabinet. He’d brought this copy out, oh, weeks ago. He must have forgotten to put it away.

“Yeah, they’re, uh,” his brain skips and fumbles because this is not an invitation, it can’t be, he needs it not to be, “they’re probably in my room somewhere. I’ll give them to you when I find them, okay?”

Lucifer’s expression warms, and he smiles slightly at Sam. “Thank you, Sam. I appreciate it.”

Sam shrugs. “It’s not a problem. Everybody should at least try and read them.”

“Why?” Lucifer asks and, oh, Sam had almost forgotten.

“They had a pretty massive impact on the fiction genre,” he says. “And the following was - is - massive, and global. They told a story that a lot of people loved, and understood.” Sam smiles, shrugs again. “And people like to fight over character interpretations. If Dean and I ever start arguing about one Draco Malfoy, that’s why.”

Lucifer frowns. “The pureblood boy that Harry dislikes? Why?”

Sam laughs just a little. He’s never gotten to do this before, never been able to throw something as monumental as Harry Potter at someone who knew nothing about it before. “Just - you’ll see.”

Lucifer’s expression remains curious, but he nods. “What is the next book about?”

Sam smiles a little. “How about I just go get the books for you?”

Lucifer cocks his head. “How many are there?”

“Six more, after this one. Hang on, I’ll go grab them.”

Sam goes to his room and finds the books, sets them on his bed. He can’t believe he’s doing this. Someone should tell J. K. Rowling that the Devil likes her stories. Someone should tell him how to get a grip on himself before he loses his goddamn mind.

The books thump heavily on the table where Sam sets them down. Lucifer eyes the stack with interest. “They got much bigger,” he notes, studying the worn aspects of each copy.

Sam hums agreement. “She was really prolific from book four onwards. They got pretty huge.”

Lucifer is already reaching out, inspecting the cover of _Chamber_ _of_ _Secrets_. “That’s the second one,” Sam says. “These should all be in the right order, but if they aren’t, it’ll be pretty easy to tell.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Lucifer says again, and as Sam goes back to the kitchen he tries to shove back the thoughts that plague him. Last night happened, but it was over now. It was a slip.

It damn well wasn’t going to happen again. He couldn’t allow that.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam spends the next few days rotating between sleep and sitting in the library pretending he isn’t working. He’s not supposed to be - Dean had ordered him to sleep and rest for the next couple days, until he was “recovered.”

The idea of total recovery isn’t completely impossible - Cas is doing his best to heal Sam in bits in pieces, but his work is slow. The Trials had left scars that were thorough and complex, burned through him in ways that went deeper than just his body. The unspoken implication that Lucifer could help more is sits heavily on him whenever Cas heals him, but Sam ignores it. Books are one thing. That would be - something else. Something too close for comfort.

He does talk to Lucifer, though, much more often now that he’s spending his waking hours in the library. The conversation revolves around safe topics, like the books Sam has started to ply Lucifer with. Lucifer finds fiction to be fascinating, and Sam has at this point spent several hours listening to Lucifer point out plot holes and character deficiencies in _Harry Potter_. He's started to give Lucifer the classics, now that he’s finished those, _To Kill A Mockingbird_ and complete collections of Shakespeare. _Paradise Lost_ sits innocently on Sam's shelf, waiting for its inevitable turn. Several crime and science fiction novels find their way into his hands as well.

The next time Dean and Cas leave, about a week later, Sam decides to do something stupid. He is aware that it is stupid, and also dangerous, and could potentially make his issues with Lucifer a hundred times worse.

"Sam?" Lucifer is examining the shelves in the library when Sam comes in, shrugging on his coat. "Are you leaving?"

"No," Sam says, and then he smiles just a little. "I'm running out of books to give you, so we are going to the library. If you’d like to pick some of your own books, that is."

Lucifer straightens up, his head tilting curiously. He hasn’t left the bunker since he got here, to Sam’s knowledge, so he suspects the offer will be quickly accepted. The knowledge that this could end horribly sits in the back of his mind like a weight, but Sam does his best to hope otherwise.

“I would like that,” Lucifer says finally, a very small smile on his mouth. He looks disproportionately pleased with the situation.

Lucifer follows Sam out of the bunker, and Sam sees the difference in the way he walks, the way he stares, how he breathes. “You’re not trapped in there, you know,” he says unthinkingly, and Lucifer’s gaze cuts to the sky. “We aren’t keeping you inside.”

“I am trapped here just as much as I was in the Cage,” Lucifer says quietly, but he does not seem to be upset by the notion. “Though this time, my prison is one I’ve chosen.”

“And what prison is that?” Sam asks warily. There is a sinking feeling in his gut that tells him he already knows the answer to that question.

He lowers his eyes to Sam’s, smiles. “You, of course. Your brother and his angel as well, but if you were to leave them...” Lucifer shrugs, like it makes no difference to him.

“I’m not keeping you here,” Sam says firmly, and starts to walk towards town. “I’m not your warden.”

Lucifer makes a small, dissatisfied noise as he too starts to walk. “You misunderstand me. You are not a prison - that was a bad choice of words. You are…” he pauses, searching. “We are planets, orbiting the same star. Heading in the same direction, at differing speeds. We want the same things, Sam.”

Sam snorts. “I don’t think we do.” The disbelieving tone he uses cannot be helped.

“I would like Metatron’s grace bound tight, and left to rot or destroyed,” Lucifer says, and the vindictiveness there is terrifying. “I would like to rend _Gadreel_ ,” his voice curls around the word in disgust, “into atoms. You specific desires may be different, but the gist of them are the same.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Sam allows. “You’re not exactly right, either.”

“Then correct me.” The answer is prompt and determined. Lucifer’s eyes are glued to Sam’s face, even as they walk.

“I want justice,” Sam starts. “I don’t much care what form it comes in. Metatron deserves to pay for what he’s done, and if someone puts him down for it, then fine. Gadreel -” Sam sucks in a breath, sharp discomfort twitching inside himself, “was not a bad person.”

“Sam -” Lucifer’s protest is instant.

“ _Lucifer_ ,” Sam glowers, and the angel falls into an angry silence. “He was not a bad person. He made shitty, shitty choices, but he wasn’t a bad person. If he dies for those choices, fine. It’s not like he didn’t have it coming. But I don’t care if he dies or lives. I don’t have a reason to. All I want is for him, and Metatron, and all the other angels to get their shit together and get off my goddamn planet.”

“Your planet?” Lucifer asks, eyebrows raised high, and Sam makes an abrupt, angry noise.

“Humanity’s planet,” he corrects himself. “Whatever. It’s _ours_. We never should have been involved with all your fucking shenanigins in the first place. We didn’t ask to be here. Believe us, if someone had bothered to ask, I’m pretty sure most of the population when fully clued in would ask to not exist at all. But here we are, and you guys can’t leave well enough alone for five goddamn minutes, and we have to deal with all of your backlash. Not you, not demons, not angels. Humans have cleaned up every mess the supernatural has made in the past couple decades, and nobody seems to remember that the only reason we do is because this is our _home_.”

“And you’ve treated it so well,” Lucifer snarks at him.

Sam voice snaps into something cold and unamused. “Because you’ve done Heaven so many favors.”

Lucifer comes to an abrupt halt, standing stiffly in the middle of the road. Sam stops in front of him, arms crossed. “Yeah, hypocrisy isn’t a good look on you, by the way,” Sam adds critically. “Makes you look like a dick, actually.”

For a moment, silence continues to reign. Then Sam bows his head, runs a hand over his face. “Shit,” he mutters, mostly to himself, staring at the ground. “I’m sorry,” he says when he looks up, catches the startled expression that flickers momentarily over Lucifer’s face. “I don’t know why I’m snapping at you. I - yeah. Let’s just - do you still want to go?”

Very slowly, Lucifer nods. Sam nods back at him, just once, then turns on his heels and keeps walking. The angel follows.

* * *

Sam’s rant had been bitter and angry. Lucifer is not proud of the way he has conducted himself today, understandable though it may be. But Sam’s parting shots had been like a slap in the face, startling and hurtful and unexpectedly sharp.

The apology had hurt more than the words themselves. And then - asking if he still wished to -

It’s more courtesy and decency than Lucifer has been afforded in a long while. Conversations and interaction are one thing, can be excused as a curiosity and morbid fascination, but to care that he has been upset is something altogether different. Lucifer doesn’t know how to address it, so they walk for the next half hour in silence.

The library is warm inside, and Sam gestures for him to follow. The desks the librarians sit are are made of wood and littered with papers. The floor is flattened, cheap carpet, and the walls are the pale-gray-blue of a rainy autumn sky.

“Hello,” the librarian greets, offering a small smile. “How may I help you?” Then she seems to realize something. “Oh, Sam! Hi, how’ve you been? It’s been a while.”

Lucifer watches Sam’s face turn a light pink, a small smile on his face. “I’m alright, Shannon. Thanks. I’ve just been busy, uh, helping Lucien here settle in.”

Her eyebrows raise, and Lucifer could sense her eyes flickering between them even if he had gone blind. Her appraisal of the situation is palpable. “Is that so? Well, welcome to Lawrence, Mr…” she pauses, frowns.

Sam’s expression suddenly grows bright and warm. “Oh, he’s a Winchester too.”

Shannon’s expression suddenly seems heart-fallen, but Lucifer barely notices. Sam has turned a shy, hopeful smile on him. He’s offered physical apology through the use of his own name. Lucifer resists the urge to stare at him, stunned.

Lucifer smirks at the librarian. “That’s right,” he agrees. “And I’m to understand I need a library card?”

“Of course,” she sighs, and pulls a blank one from a stack. “Sign your name on the card please.”

He signs _Lucien Winchester_ and lets the ink dry before sliding it into his pocket. Sam guides him to the fiction section.

“Which books have you liked the best so far?” Sam asks quietly. When Lucifer meets his eyes, they’re sharp, focused; Sam is on a mission here.

He gives the question honest thought. “I’ve enjoyed the poetry,” he allows. “And you’ve given me several science fiction novels that were amusing.”

Sam considers this for a moment. “Heavy or light on the science jargon?”

“Heavy.”

Sam maneuvers the shelves and starts picking out books, and hands a small stack to Lucifer. “See if those are interesting. I’m going to go find you some epic poetry.”

Lucifer blinks after him as he quickly walks away, and skims over the backs of the books. He returns most of them to their places, but keeps two he finds appropriate. For a moment, he waits, but then he starts to meander his way down the aisles.

He likes books. Lucifer will allow that literature is a merit of humanity. Most angels do not have the capacity for the kind of storytelling that seems so common in humans. And they touch upon such intriguing topics, death and religion and love. Love is so often referenced in books that Lucifer is surprised by it - it is not typically revered as the deep bond that it should be, and instead cast as something fleeting, painful, yet still powerful. Love is a tragedy to humankind. And so often, they tie it to death. Love that transcends death, love that defies it, love that conquers it… Such common themes in the works of humans.

“Lucifer?”

He turns to face Sam, standing with a thick stack of books at the end of the aisle, and then approaches. “Hello, Sam.”

Sam’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “Hey. Find anything?”

Lucifer shakes his head. “No. But there are more shelves to look through.” His eyes turn to the stack. “May I see these?”

Sam hands over most, but not all, of the books. “These ones are mine,” he says by way of explanation, and Lucifer hums acknowledgement before perusing the titles.

“ _The Divine Comedy_ ,” Lucifer reads aloud, and raises a curious eyebrow at Sam.

Sam offers him a toothy grin. “That’s more for my sake than anything else. Listening to you complain about it is going to be…” he breaks off with a small grin.

“And why will I complain?”

“Because it’s wrong. _Extremely_ wrong. But it is interesting. I think you’ll like it.” Sam sounds very sure of this, and Lucifer resolves to read this one first. He inspects the other titles - they’re things he’s heard Sam mention, titles that have drifted in and out of mention in conversation - and then tilts his head to read the spines of the books Sam still holds.

There are angels and devils on the cover of one of them. “ _Good Omens_. Don’t you deal with enough of us that you tire of reading about it? This book can’t possibly be correct.”

Sam grins. “This one is fiction actually, and it’s a comedy. It’s actually one of my favorites.”

“What is its premise?”

He shrugs. “Some nuns have misplaced the Antichrist.”

Lucifer’s eyebrows go up a notch. “I see,” he says archly, and Sam smothers his laughter behind a palm.

“C’mon,” Sam says at last, gesturing Lucifer forward. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Lucifer is distracted.

It doesn’t happen often. He isn’t really one for wandering without cause when he has something better to be doing, like reading. But he is disinterested in paper and words at the moment, so he walks the halls of the bunker aimlessly.

He turns the library card in his hands over and over again, inspecting the fine details of the small piece of plastic and the name on it. Lucien Winchester. A human name, a fake name, and yet - one that now seems to be his. For human interaction, he cannot be _Lucifer_. His image has been too twisted for that to be allowed. So Sam had renamed him, given him a name as close as possible to the truth, and allowed him the use of his own last name.

Lucifer isn’t sure why it resonates with him. Names have power, it’s true, but it’s nothing more than an alias. Perhaps it’s the look Sam gave him afterwards - shy, but hopeful. Something bright and new. Was it merely a way of apologizing for his words, or something else? Theorizing about it tells him nothing, of course, only places a twist in his gut and a strange pressure on his chest. The idea of it seems highly personal, especially when he considers the importance that the Winchesters impose on family.

When he finds himself in front of Sam’s door, he hesitates. Sam has not invited him inside again since the first visit, instead coming out to join him in the library. Lucifer is wary of treading where he is unwanted; he does not want to overstep Sam’s boundaries. He does not want to damage the tentative relationship they are building by pushing too hard for answers.

Sam opens the door before he has the chance to knock, or even make a choice. His expression seems cautious, but not offended or overly worried. Mostly, he appears to be curious.

“Lucifer? I heard you walking. Is something wrong?” Sam asks, and Lucifer shakes his head. He’s here now. Sam is speaking with him, and does not seem too wary. This may as well be when he does it.

“No. I’m just curious about this,” he says, and extends the card.

Sam takes it, inspects it. “What about it are you curious about?”

“Why did you give me your name?”

To Lucifer’s bafflement, Sam’s cheeks begin to turn pink. “I - um. Well,” he scratches at the back of his head, and the flush darkens to a shade of red that Lucifer can’t help but find beautiful as it creeps up his neck.

“I guess I just - I wanted to let you know things were okay,” Sam says finally, his head tilting down. “And that, I don’t know, that you have a place. Here. With - us.” _With me_ , Lucifer hears.

Lucifer stares at him. “You want me here?”

Sam rubs a hand over his face. “Have I made you think otherwise? I barely come out of my room for Dean, and you think that coming out for hours just to talk about books means I don’t want you here?”

“I was under the impression that I make you uncomfortable.”

“You _do_ ,” Sam mutters, and his hand moves to run through his hair. “Just looking at you is a little nauseating, honestly. But you’re not - you’ve been nothing but respectful,” he says firmly. “You’ve been decent and you’ve respected my space. You’ve even been polite to Dean. I don’t dislike you, it’s just that I. I can’t -” Sam swallows, shakes his head. Lucifer doesn’t think he can finish the sentence.

“I think I understand,” Lucifer says gently, and Sam shakes his head again sharply.

“You really don’t. You have no possible way of knowing what it’s like to - to know that your _brother_ -” his voice twists, and his jaw clicks shut. “You can’t possibly know,” he finishes, exhaling shakily. “You just can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Lucifer murmurs, and Sam’s expression flickers to surprise for a moment. “I didn’t mean to distress you.”

Sam waves a hand around, and rubs his face again. “It’s not just you. But...thank you for apologizing.” His eyes turn to the floor, and for a moment, there’s nothing but silence.

“Do you want to come in? I could use help with the index system.”

Slowly, Lucifer nods, and Sam steps aside to let him enter, closing the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm leaving Gadreel's fate up to the characters tbh. It's going to be really, really fun to see how Sam and Lucifer react to him when he shows up. Super fun.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *finger guns* surprise, this fic isn't dead have 4k words of mild plot progression

Sam wakes up with his head on a pillow, and his forehead touching something that isn’t a blanket or a sheet. He blinks his eyes open to the soft yellow light of his bedside lamp and the faded blue of a denim clad thigh in his face.

His heart flutters and freezes in his chest, and Sam swallows, moving back from the body next to his and looking up. Lucifer’s head is lolled to the side, his mouth partially opened as he sleeps, leaning back against the headboard. There are files sliding off his lap and a highlighter rests in his open palm, smearing bright orange ink there.

Sam must have fallen asleep working through the _Q_ section. Glancing at the papers, Sam can see that Lucifer made it all the way to the _S_ section before conking out next to him. He has a strange, concerning urge to just not move, to stay in bed and sleep until Lucifer also wakes up. It wouldn’t be difficult. He’s comfortable and warm and Lucifer, despite being _Lucifer_ , is still asleep and harmless.

No. No, no, he shouldn’t - he can’t. That’s an awful idea, he should wake Lucifer up, kick him out politely. But he doesn’t _want_ to. He just wants to sleep. He’s safe enough here. If Lucifer wanted to hurt him, the wards wouldn’t stop him. Nothing would. He’s just as safe with Lucifer beside him as he is while Lucifer roams the halls, no matter what his lizard brain tries to convince him of.

He dozes off again before he can decide for sure, and when Sam wakes once more, he’s alone. But there’s a blanket tucked around him now, and the papers from the index that they had been working on have been left in a neat stack on his desk instead of scattered among the sheets.

Sam lays in bed and stares at the ceiling, thinking, for a long while.

* * *

 

Lucifer passes through the library several times as he makes trips between the bedroom he’s claimed and the coffee pot he’s mastered. Every time, Sam is sitting in a small palace of books, a multitude of colored pens and a notepad in front of him while he inspects their pages.

They aren’t typical research books. These are older, denser, and there’s a magical thrum coming off of them that sends curiosity through him in little spikes. He can’t ignore them, so on his seventh trip to and from the kitchen, he stops and hovers a few feet from Sam’s table.

Sam finishes his section, and looks up at him, brow furrowed and eyes a little glazed over from having his focus disturbed. “ _Lu̡҉҉c̵if̸e̴̛r̴”_

Lucifer feels his eyes widen, his eyebrows lift. His name, rough on a human tongue but coming from _Sam_ , is not something he thought he needed to prepare himself for. “Sam?” he asks archly.

After a moment of confused frowning, he sighs. “Sorry,” Sam mumbles, and rubs a hand over his face. “I’ve been reading these for too long, I started thinking in it.”

“I see,” Lucifer says slowly, coming closer. “Is that unusual?”

“Happens with Latin and Old Norse too, so I’d say no. Dean thinks it’s funny.” Sam’s eyes drift down to Lucifer’s chest - or rather, his hands, and the cup they hold. “Is that coffee?”

“It is. There’s quite a bit left, if you’d like some.”

Sam nods. “That’d be great, thank you.”

Lucifer hunts down Sam’s favorite cup and fills it with coffee, cream, and sugar. After a moment of thought, he grabs a container of blueberries from the fridge, and returns to the library to place both next to Sam’s book castle.

“Blueberries?”

“It doesn’t appear that you’ve eaten yet today. I figured fruit would be a good compromise between not eating and having to cook,” Lucifer admits, unsure of how the gesture will be received. He’s relieved when Sam just ducks his head, a small smile on his mouth.

“Thanks, Lucifer.” Sam sips his coffee, and hums, pleased. “You wanna sit down?” he offers, and gestures at the other side of the table.

Gratefully, Lucifer sits. He inspects the covers of the books curiously, but finds no titles. “What are these?”

“Right now, it looks like a scholarly analysis of angel science. Well, part of angel science.”

Lucifer smirks. “Angel science?”

Sam huffs, shaking his head. It makes his hair swish gently around his face, and Lucifer follows the movement of Sam’s hand as he pushes it back. “Yeah, uh. A better way to put it would be angel biology, I think. Except, you don’t _have_ biology.” Sam glares down at his notepad. “It’s beyond complicated.”

“Why are you translating for this?” Lucifer frowns, eyes skimming over the page Sam is translating. “More importantly, why didn’t you simply ask Castiel or I to translate it for you?”

“Because Cas isn’t here, and you seemed busy,” Sam retorts. “And I’m looking at this to see if there’s anything in here that relates to how Metatron’s spell worked. Because it didn’t just dump the angels in Heaven onto the Earth; it took all of them. Even the prisoners. Even you,” Sam adds, frowning thoughtfully. Lucifer watches him shake his head, dislodging his thoughts. “Anyways. I figure we have a better chance at reversing the thing if we actually know how it works.”

Lucifer hums a little, peering a little further to read the Enochian scrawled over the pages. “That’s true,” he allows, leaning back a little when Sam does, taking the hint. “How much of this have you finished?”

Sam sighs. “Not nearly enough.”

After a moment of consideration, Lucifer drags one of the massive volumes in front of himself, and steals an unused notebook from Sam’s side of the table. Sam blinks at him, slightly confused, but his expression morphs into a small, pleased smile when Lucifer simply opens the book and begins to translate.

* * *

 

Dean comes back two days later without Cas. He’s pissed off, which is becoming more and more typical ever since he came back from that fucking outing with Crowley wearing the Mark.

He says the hunt went fine and they found what had been killing people at the retreat. He says that Cas got a call about the angel factions, and that’s why he didn’t come back. Lucifer is suspiciously absent from the communal areas the moment Dean gets back.

When Sam calls Cas, he says that Dean had argued with him through the whole hunt, had nearly killed a woman just because she was a monster and her brother had been the killer, and then proceeded to nearly bite his head off when Cas had asked what he was planning on doing about his own familial relationships. The bit about him getting a lead on angelic factions had been true, however, and he was now looking for the killer of an angel named Rebecca who had recently died. Sam wished him luck and said his goodbyes.

It’s been a couple of months since Gadreel had happened. He wouldn’t say that the time has allowed him to “cool down” in regards to it. If anything, it’s just left him to fester. He doesn’t care about Gadreel, doesn’t need to think about him. They’ll deal with the angel in whatever way is best whenever he shows his face again.

But Dean. Dean is a different problem. Dean still doesn’t understand, according to Cas, why Sam is keeping himself distant. Why he locks himself in his room. The refusal to allow Lucifer to do any of the healing Cas had been doing, even though it would have been faster. Dean doesn’t get what he did wrong. Doesn’t think he did anything wrong, doesn’t think he needs to apologize.

So Sam goes back to Dean and picks a fight.

“You would’ve done the same thing!” Dean ends up shouting at him, over the kitchen table. There is desperation and fear in his look, but he’s angry too. Righteously angry, so determined that he’s right.

Sam is exhausted and bitter, and the part of him that is still the innocent baby brother Dean wants him to be wonders what happened to them, how it got this bad. Because he can say, honestly, “No, Dean, I wouldn’t. Same circumstances, I wouldn’t.” His voice is very soft.

He doesn’t want to look at Dean, but he does. Dean looks - beyond devastated. Like Sam has admitted to something unspeakable, and it’s breaking him. Like he isn’t the one who started smashing Sam apart in the first place.

* * *

 

Lucifer is trying his best to avoid Dean. The Mark that Dean now bears is something of his own making. There is a certain amount of control he has over it, and therefore Dean, that he does not want to tempt himself to use.

It would be so easy to force Dean to beg for Sam’s forgiveness, to admit his wrongdoings. At the very least, to make him admit them to himself. But, no matter his intentions in that, it wouldn’t do anything favorable for his relationship with Sam.

He can hear the tail end of an argument as he makes his way through the winding halls of the bunker back towards the main rooms. He hesitates as the brothers’ voices grow louder, and then turns toward the room he has silently claimed as his own. His impulse control is strong, but Sam has always been his exception, and he does not wish to gamble with himself when it might risk the loss of Sam’s trust, tentative though it is.

The bedroom he uses is dark and dusty. Like most rooms in the bunker, it smells of mothballs and memories, and leaves an itch in the back of Lucifer’s throat. There are no personal belongings in the room, except for the books that Sam had gotten for him from the library sitting on the bedside table, as well as a stack of obnoxiously bright yellow squares of paper Sam had called sticky notes and a collection of pens next to them. He used the latter two for notations and reminders in the books he was reading, for ease of reference when discussing the books with Sam. More and more of them are being used while translating, to mark particularly esoteric passages that Sam might be able to make more palatable to human understanding.

Most of yesterday was spent talking about the realm of science fiction, between working on the translations of the Enochian texts. Sam had spoken of the almost prophetic nature of some of the books that had been written decades prior, things that had been projected as impossible that were now realities. He had been so enthusiastic, quickly getting caught up in his own words. His hands had moved as he spoke, occasionally demonstrating but mostly just _moving_. He had been energized, brighter and healthier than Lucifer had seen him in weeks.

The constant movement had been a distraction, and Lucifer had found his eyes moving to follow Sam’s hands far too frequently. But it had been - nice, to see Sam so animated. Castiel’s last few rounds of healing had done him much good, and the week or so of rest he had gotten afterwards while they worked through Sam’s personal supply of books had been even better. But it does bring up the issue of hunting; once Sam is well again, he will go on hunts. The idea of it makes Lucifer uneasy, given how weak Sam has been since his arrival, but if he can, perhaps, convince Sam and Dean to bring him along…

A knock against the doorframe makes him twitch ever so slightly, breaking his train of thought, and then he turns. Sam is hovering just outside the door; the hallway backlights Sam in fluorescent white, and the glow spills into the dark of the bedroom.

“Hey.” Sam is being unusually quiet, and Lucifer bites back concern as his eyes skip to the floor. “Uh, can I talk to you?”

“Of course, Sam,” Lucifer says instantly, and Sam’s eyes move back up. He smiles - it is a small, unhappy thing, but it’s genuine.

Sam turns on the lights as he enters the room, not quite closing the door behind him, and he absorbs what he sees with mild curiosity. Lucifer moves from standing in the center of the room to sitting on the bed, one leg folded beneath himself. He observes as Sam slides the unused desk chair away from its table, and straddles it, arms crossing over the back. The movement leaves tiny tracks in the dust on the floor, and sends motes floating through the air. He waits quietly, while Sam leans his head into his arms and takes a moment to simply breathe.

Slowly, he lifts his head, and props his chin on his arm. “I don’t know what to do,” Sam says haltingly.

Lucifer’s mouth turns down at the corners. “About what?”

There’s a pause. In the warm yet dim yellow light of the overhead lamp, Lucifer can see Sam tense, as though debating whether or not to stand.

“About Dean,” he says at last, and his muscles loosen again. “He doesn’t get that what he did…” Sam shakes his head. “He refuses to see what he’s done. He told me that I would’ve done the same thing if our situations were switched, and I - I had to tell him I wouldn’t.

“Because I _wouldn’t_ ,” Sam repeats, distress a growing note in his voice. “I know what it’s like to be taken over like that, and that’s not something you inflict without consent. That’s not something he had the right to chose for me. And he doesn’t see that.”

Lucifer is so angry and his chest feels as though it is splitting in two all at once. He wants to apologize for what Sam has gone through, comfort him; he wants to force Dean to kneel before Sam and rend the apologies from the sinner’s own throat.

He does neither, sitting quietly and trying to chose his words. “I am not sure what you are hoping to hear,” Lucifer admits after a moment.

Sam laughs. It’s a light sound, but it contains an edge, a shadow. “Anything. I don’t know. I don’t even know why I’m here, I just - I can’t tell Dean how pissed off I am because he refuses to get it, but _you_ -” He waves a hand towards Lucifer like that explains what he means.

“I am part of your problem,” Lucifer finishes, nodding. He knows that his time spent possessing Sam had not been as pleasant as he’d wished for it to be for them both, and Gadreel’s reprehensible actions had in all likelihood only stirred up those memories. It burns him to know that he causes Sam distress, but he does understand why.

Sam looks down at his hands, frowning. He does not rebuke Lucifer’s statement, but there’s something else on his mind as well. “You are,” Sam finally acknowledges. “You weren’t the same as the rest. but you still - you did things, Lucifer.” There is a faint tremor in Sam’s voice, and Lucifer watches him stop to take a breath and swallow harshly. The uneasiness in him makes Lucifer’s stomach twist in new and uncomfortable ways. He did that. He made Sam feel this way. Also - the _rest?_  Who else has clawed their way into Sam’s body? “You did things I am beyond not okay with. But at least I know that you actually respected my right to say no in the first place.”

Lucifer remembers Sam’s rage. He remembers perusing through it like one would flip the pages of a book. He’d tried to give Sam revenge, closure for his anger. Sam had hated the demons that had controlled his life, so they had killed them. Sam had been angry at his brother, so they had started to kill him too.

Then he’d found the sorrow and misery, the pain of his life. Lucifer had been knocked back by it, then thrown headfirst into joy and loyalty and the shining light of Sam’s love and hope. These things tempered the anger Lucifer had found first and focused on, wove together into a complex whole that was suddenly, inexplicably, containing him. He remembers Sam asking him, begging him, to _fix this we can fix this together you won’t be alone I’ll go with you Michael doesn’t need to die just help me fix this._

“I didn’t understand most of you, after the fact,” Lucifer admits. “I could only see pieces at first. It took time to gain enough perspective to see the whole.”

Sam huffs out a laugh, and his mouth curls into a small smirk. “I know,” he says. “I got stuck doing the same.” His expression sobers, and his body stills. Lucifer wonders what it is that he remembers. “And then it didn’t really matter anymore.”

“No. It didn’t.”

The silence stretches for a long time. Lucifer focuses on watching Sam, instead of following him down the messy path of memories that make up his second sentence to the Cage, shorter yet more painful than the one that came before.

Eventually, Sam’s eyes move back up to him. There’s still a distinctive note of unrest around him, but he seems steadier.

“Can I ask you something?” Sam says.

Lucifer is tempted to point out the fact that he did just ask a question, but refrains. “Of course, Sam,” he says instead.

He stamps down on his surprise when Sam rises, looking nervous, and moves to sit on the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest. Lucifer notes the indentation in his cheek where he’s biting it.

“I don’t really understand why you’re here,” Sam says at last. “I mean, I’d rather have you here than causing trouble, but - I’m not sure why you came here in the first place.”

“Because of you,” Lucifer replies, without hesitation, even though he knows Sam isn’t going to enjoy hearing it. “I understand that you will not let me in again, but you are still important to me, Sam.”

Sam’s head tilts to the left, his brows furrowing. “Why?”

Lucifer sighs, and unfolds his leg, frowning down at the ground. He needs to find a way to word this that is least likely to upset Sam. He doesn’t believe that to be remotely close to possible.

“You are my vessel, Sam, regardless of whether I’m possessing you. You were made for me,” he emphasizes, “and in the same way, I was made for you. Mirror images; a flawed mirror, perhaps, but that’s only to be expected, between free will and the destruction of the script.

“There is not a single facet of you that I fail to find interesting,” he presses on. “Walking away from you, when you are the only being alive that has understood me so completely…” Lucifer shakes his head, laughing slightly, because the thought truly is laughable. Why would he ever choose, of his own accord, to be separated from Sam?

Sam frowns, his brow deeply furrowed. “There’s a difference between walking away completely and just being here when it suits you, or just jumping into my dreams again. Instead you’re _here_. With no ulterior motive.”

“Is that so surprising?”

Sam rubs a hand over his mouth, then drops it, leans it against the edge of the table. “It is. You were - are - exceptionally goal orientated, to the point of single-minded focus. You’ve never not had a goal. But it doesn’t feel like you have one, now.”

Ah. Now he understands what Sam is saying. “I’m prioritizing,” Lucifer explains. “The script, as I said, has been destroyed. This is a story I was never meant to have a place in. My time on Earth was meant to be at an end; the Cage was my future. Being given a second chance, intentional or not, is not an opportunity I mean to waste.

“You have always been a priority for me, Sam,” Lucifer says, and the wistful smile on his face can’t be helped. “I told you once, that every time you ran away, you were running towards me. This, now, is me...running towards you. I will always be drawn to you. But, aside from you, I do have goals, as you said. I will see to it that Gadreel burns, and that Metatron answers for every angel he sentenced to living on Earth. After that has been addressed...” he trails off, shrugging, “I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?”

Sam looks like there’s something he wants to say to that, but there are footsteps coming down the hall. Dean, heading for bed. Sam’s eyes zero in on the doorway, suddenly panic bright. “Shit,” he mutters, and Dean walks in front of the door.

He glances sideways reflexively to look in the doorway, stops for just a moment. Takes in the sight of the Devil on the bed, speaking with his brother, more reminiscent of the Apocalypse than he’ll ever know - and walks on without a word. Like they aren’t even there.

Sam has gone blank, staring out into the hall with hollow eyes. He’s shaking harder now, but it’s different. His hands clench on the edge of the table hard enough that his knuckles turn white.

“Sam?”

He doesn’t get a response for a long moment. Then Sam’s hands let go. He pushes away from the table, looks at Lucifer. “I think I should go to bed,” he says. His voice is numb and hollow, devoid of inflection. “Goodnight, Lucifer.”

"Goodnight, Sam," he says back, watches as Sam up and walks out without another sound. Lucifer reminds himself again, firmly, that forcing Dean to apologize will not be helpful in the long run. 

Daydreaming of it doesn't do any harm, though.


End file.
